Time over Tuesday, August almost gone, br So little left of summer to dream on. br I write a poem on the windowglass. br Quatrains waver like shadows in the grass. br br One feels as if all life is lost in form. br Only sun's metaphor can keep us warm. br A lone, nostalgic whistle in the hills, br Tells me our train has come, the moment chills. br br You turn my collar up against the sound. br Gray smoke configures good-bye on the ground. br The picture is too beautiful to lose br Your eyes tell me that Tuesday is old news.